


The Girl by the Gate

by Precipice



Series: Nath [3]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom
Genre: Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24406165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: In which Asenath Waite stands her ground.
Series: Nath [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586722
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Girl by the Gate

If her father's house felt like a cage, Armitage's home resembled a nest.  
  
Breakfast in her father's house was a lonely affair, as Ephraim Waite rarely ate with his daughter, and usually consisted of cold bread and cheap butter. In comparison, breakfast in Armitage's home involved a smiling elderly lady and two types of fruit jam.  
  
Asenath's role in her father's house was that of a decorative object – something to be placed in a central yet remote spot, where it would be noticed and admired by guests but neither touched nor addressed. In comparison, Asenath's role in Armitage's home was that of a close friend – someone who could pick the station on the radio and do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper.  
  
In her father's house, conversations were either stilted or scathing, depending on whether she was talking to the servants or being talked to by Ephraim. In Armitage's home, conversations were sometimes awkward, on occasion even embarrassing for the girl, but never unpleasant – Mrs. Armitage was too kindhearted while Dr. Armitage was too open-minded, so neither of them really paid much attention to Asenath's blunders.  
  
Her father's house was a place she rarely left – never without Ephraim's permission and a servant's company. In comparison, Armitage's home was a place she left every day – either for work with Dr. Armitage, on errands with Mrs. Armitage, or just to get a bit of fresh air by herself.  
  
Such were the thoughts which flitted through Asenath's head like careless butterflies while she sharpened her pencil for the second time that day. It was almost noon on Wednesday, and she was almost done with her task for the week – the translation of chapter IX of a previously unknown edition of _Cultes des Goules_.  
  
Normally, this would have been Dr. Morgan's job, since it was he who had found the small book while browsing antique shops in New York, but his schedule was already full, since not only had he agreed to give a series of lectures in some other university in Boston, but his infant son was beginning to teeth as well. Therefore, _Cultes des Goules_ became Asenath's job. She would translate each chapter from French to English and deliver both the original text and her translation to Dr. Morgan for further study.

She had to use a dictionary, as her vocabulary still lacked, but at least the grammar did not pose a challenge – boredom was the main side effect of the long hours the girl had spent locked in Ephraim Waite's study, and as a result she had picked up enough Latin, French and German to read a book and perhaps write a letter. She had been very careful not to let her father see her holding anything less innocuous than _Wonders of the Invisible World_. If he had caught her leafing through _De Vermis Mysteriis_, his surprise would have been very unpleasant – though not as unpleasant as that candelabrum had been.  
  
Asenath completed the rather lengthy paragraph on amulets and skimmed the rest – ten pages' worth of explanations regarding the nature of certain summoning rituals. She would have to get the _Necronomicon_ for this part, as Balfour referred to three of its chapters.  
  
A dozen centuries had passed since _Al Azif_ came into existеnce, and it remained the only authority that could be trusted. Other authors had either a personal agenda, a blind spot or, at the very least, a specific goal – all of which easily could and often did serve both as an anchor and a chain. Not Alhazred, though – he had written down the truths of the universe as they were, rather than as he understood them. It was nothing short of inspiring, especially now that Asenath had to translate arcane texts for common rather than personal use.  
  
However, since it was almost noon on Wednesday, Asenath took a short break to give the watchdog its lunch – raw meat and fresh water. They did not have any dogs back in Innsmouth; in fact, Cerberus was the first dog Asenath had ever seen, and he had scared her terribly. Despite this, or rather because of it, Asenath had been feeding Cerberus twice a week – so that he would get used to her, as Dr. Armitage had explained. It seemed to be working, because the dog had stopped growling at her after the third time. And last week, he had even allowed her to pet him.  
  
She quickly ate her own lunch in the break room before knocking on Professor Rice's door to ask for help, as Dr. Armitage was yet to return from his meeting with someone named Dean. In accordance with the Library's policy, the Professor recorded the _Necronomicon_ 's extraction from its display case (date, names, reason), then personally carried the heavy book to Asenath's table and seated himself on the chair next to hers, as readers were not allowed to use the _Necronomicon_ without a librarian to oversee the session. This did not bother the girl; she understood that rules existed for a reason, even if said reason was not always a good one. She also knew how to properly handle old books.  
  
If there was a problem, it was Rice himself. The man did not like Asenath. True, he had never said or done anything to offend or hurt the girl, but it was obvious he did not want her around. Asenath guessed that her parentage did little to recommend her – true, she had only revealed her father's name, but she suspected that they had already figured out her mother's race.  
  
Apparently, Innsmouth cast a very long and very dark shadow.  
  
The girl did not enjoy being blamed for something that was not her responsibility – she had not chosen to be born to Wizard Waite of Innmouth. However, it did not matter whether some stocky man with gray hair liked her. Rice was not fond of her and the feeling was mutual; but Rice trusted his superior and Asenath respected her host, so they had no other choice but to tolerate each other.  
  
Alhazred helped her clarify that Balfour was indeed talking about conjuration (via salt), possession (via medium) and transformation (via host). Four pages down, six pages to go... even though the four pages turned into eight as annotations were necessary, what with Balfour's erratic style. Asenath paused to sharpen her pencil for the third time that day. She would have to edit the entire thing once the translation was completed, and then type it out.  
  
She had not forgotten that Rice was sitting next to her, but his question startled her all the same:  
  
"Your... Ephraim Waite didn't possess a copy, did he?"  
  
At first, Asenath thought he was referring to _ Cultes des Goules_. Then she almost scoffed at herself. This book was hardly difficult to obtain – its copies were as widespread as mold, if one knew where to look. The _Necronomicon_ , on the other hand...  
  
"His copy was a pile of hand-written notes from decades ago, back when the Kingsport cult weren't so stingy with their precious book."  
  
"His words, I presume?" Rice's voice was oddly light when he made that remark.  
  
Asenath felt the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.  
  
"Give or take an expletive."  
  
They sat in silence for a while – Asenath working, Rice observing. Once she was done with the annotations and put those papers aside, Rice spoke again:  
  
"Waite didn't teach you anything."  
  
It was a statement, not a question. Still, Asenath had to confirm:  
  
"No, he didn't."  
  
Her eyes did not leave the table, but she felt Rice move in his seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable.  
  
"Why? You seem like a smart girl."  
  
"He would disagree with you."  
  
"And I would disagree with him even louder."  
  
Now that made her look up. Professor Rice did, in fact, look uncomfortable, but he seemed determined to say what he was about to say, his own prejudice be damned.  
  
"You're doing a good job." Their eyes met, and Asenath noticed for the first time that there were flecks of gold in his irises. "In fact, you've been doing a good job ever since you left Innsmouth. In fact... I'm glad he didn't teach you anything. He would've taught you nothing good."  
  
Asenath scrambled to find an appropriate reply. Eventually, she managed to utter:  
  
"He certainly wouldn't have taught me how to use a typewriter." She made a motion with her hands, as if she were pecking at the keys.  
  
Rice did not chuckle, but he did huff in a peculiar way, as if suppressing a laugh.  
  
***  
  
The translation of _Cultes des Goules_ should have been merely tedious, but Asenath just had to notice a strange bump on the back cover. She took it to the Restoration Office and ten minutes later she was holding the small piece of parchment which had been hidden between the decorative paper and the cardboard.  
  
The parchment had a single line written on it.  
  
In Aklo.  
  
***  
  
The Library's so-called break room was actually a repurposed closet that happened to have a small window. Asenath had no problem eating there, but the wonderful weather – green trees, blue skies, etcetera – lured her outside. She strolled up and down the not-exactly-well-maintained lawn in front of the building, without her hat and even without her coat. Earlier today, Rice had dropped by the Library before his morning class to leave a basket of croissants, and Asenath was already on her third one.  
  
If she had to be honest, she deserved it – she had spent an exhausting morning trying to make heads or tails of the inscription on the parchment. The poor _Cultes des Goules_ would have been almost forgotten, had Asenath not insisted on completing its translation before facing the upcoming challenge. Nobody could really argue with her, as she was the only person in the entire Library, if not even the entire university, who had more than a fleeting familiarity with Aklo.  
  
Whenever she closed her eyes, the neither strange nor familiar shapes would pulse under her eyelids – black words on red flesh. They felt like a bruise, like an itch, like a scar. They spoke of something terrible – Asenath was not quite sure what they meant, but at one point she had mouthed what they should sound. As sudden as a pinch and just as harmless, her mother's necklace had grown simultaneously hot and cold – the amulets had burned like matchsticks while the chain had turned as cold as a snake. It had never done that before, and Asenath was both alarmed and intrigued.  
  
Cerberus' snarling tore her out of her reverie.  
  
There was someone at the gate. Tall man, long coat, wide hat. He was standing there and staring at her. The distance was too big to properly discern his features, but there was no confusing the direction of his gaze.  
  
Asenath walked up to him with what she would later recognize the arrogant recklessness of an almost seventeen-year-old who had successfully gotten away attempted murder and had recently been praised for the deed. Cerberus spared neither a glance nor a breath for her, but he moved to stand between the girl and the man.  
  
Now that she was standing less than four feet away from the man, she realized that she had met him before – in Ephraim Waite's parlor. She had been ordered to wear a pretty dress and pour coffee. The man had not made much of an impression to her – it was very likely that Asenath only remembered him because every new face had seemed remarkable to the sheltered girl.  
  
Therefore, it was rather telling that she could not even recall his name.  
  
"You should leave," she informed the man, one hand on Cerberus' collar.  
  
One flick of her thumb, and the dog would be free to tear out his throat.  
  
"Come with me," he said, pale-faced and pale-eyed. "Kamog will forgive you."  
  
"Rot in hell." Asenath had heard one student whisper this over and over again while leafing through his notebooks. "Just like he will."  
  
The man shook his head, as if she were an exasperating child and not the person who had cracked his idol's skull.  
  
"Your father slumbers inside you."  
  
Had he punched her, it would have hurt less. Asenath felt her very soul cry out in terror...  
  
"When he dies, he will awaken in your flesh."  
  
... and rage.  
  
The Aklo from the parchment came out of her mouth as easily as breathing, as sharply as lightning. Her mother's necklace flashed hot and cold and heavy.  
  
The man scrambled away, tripping and stumbling and falling, then practically running on all fours. He looked over his shoulder, as if to make sure Asenath was not following him, and almost got hit by a car.  
  
Asenath watched him disappear before turning to Cerberus, who had jumped away from her with a yelp and was currently whining in his little house. She had to give him the rest of her croissant in order to convince him to come out.  
  
***  
  
Asenath spent the rest of the day wondering if and how to tell Dr. Armitage about the man, except she saw him on the very next morning, this time staring at her from the front page of _Arkham Advertiser_.  
  
The newspaper had included his passport picture. The article itself was titled "Mystery death in locked room", the words practically jumping out of the page. He had been staying in one of the cheaper hotels. He had arrived the previous day in the early afternoon with no luggage and had not left the room since checking in. At around midnight, his screams had woken up half the guests, but when the hotel staff had finally opened the door, they had found his dead body lying on the bed, completely dressed and perfectly unharmed... except for the plucked eyes.

***  
  
Winter had passed, then so did spring. Asenath marked the passage of time with new tasks at work and old books at home, with fresh strawberries and chocolate eggs, with a new pair of shoes and her first visit to the Arkham theater.  
  
The summer solstice came and brought, among other things, the news of Ephraim Waite's funeral.  
  
On that day, Asenath woke up with a clear head and a light heart. She had dreamed of her mother for the first time in years. The woman had held the girl's face, her hands as cool as water, and she had spoken to her daughter:  
  
 _My precious child..._  
  
Asenath could not recall ever hearing her mother sound like this.  
  
Happy.  
  
The woman in her dream had sounded happy.  
  
It was Professor Rice who informed both her and Dr. Armitage that the old wizard had died in the Newburryport hospital four days ago, but his family had insisted on waiting with the funeral – as if they had been expecting something (or someone), but nothing had happened (and nobody had come).  
  
Asenath neither laughed in triumph nor smiled in relief. Instead, she went about her day as if nothing of importance had happened.  
  
And, perhaps, she was right.

**Author's Note:**

> okay fun fact - the bit about the stalker was supposed to be the beginning of a future story involving the chesuncook coven, but i wanted asenath to have some sort of Experience before learning about ephraim's death.


End file.
